Time Travel Isn't All Bad, Guys
by SilverSmithLols
Summary: Harry Potter completes a ritual to go back in time. The ritual comes has a heavy price. Harry must sacrifice Hermione's life (she's willing) and his own magic. The price is high because Harry will be sent back in time and given the ability to truly change things. Harry plans on stopping the British Men of Letters from spreading their corruption to America. (Undecided Pair) (BAMF)
1. Chapter 1

**_Time Travel Isn't All Bad, Guys._**

 _This is a work of fiction based off of the Harry Potter books and Supernatural the TV show. I do not own the characters nor do I mean to insult or mock them. Sincerely, SilverSmithLols_

It has been a long day. The waitress, a young blond girl, saunters over interrupting my pity party. Setting down a cup of steaming, hot tea with a wink.

"Thank you.", I choke out. My voice still raw from the ritual a few hours ago.

"Not a problem, Harry. Anything you need just holler for your girl Sal and I'll be over in a second.", she said with a grin and a quick bump to my shoulder.

Why were American's so touchy? Everywhere I looked since coming to America people where fist bumping, hugging walking hand in hand. And not just for a little bit either. A few hours ago, I went to the mall just before it closed to buy more clothes. I left nearly everything in England – well, the England from my past not the England of my present – and got stuck behind four girls walking hand in hand. Through the entire store. I acknowledge that my personal bias of not wanting to be touched probably affects my opinion but even the other people in the store were grumbling. So there, Hermione. It's not just me.

I huff out a breath trying to calm my racing pulse. Taking a sip of tea, I check my watch. A quarter past one in the morning. I managed a whole two minutes without thinking about Hermione and Ron. God, I miss them. This whole insane plan couldn't have happened without them. All three of us had mistakenly gotten involved with the Men of Letters, British Chapter. They somehow had connections to the Wizarding World and recruited heavily from the light side after the war was over. We believed a world without feral, muggle creatures running amok and killing everything in sight was for the best.

Of course, they forgot to mention that they killed anything and everything that wasn't human. Everything from good witches to werewolves who locked themselves up when the moon was full. Once Hermione discovered the depths of their depravity and general lack of conscience, we began to plan to move against them. Some other wizards we had fought with in the war agreed to help us in our rebellion. But, in the end, we found out we had trusted the wrong people. They caught Ron and I as we were erasing the warding and sigils around London, threw us in a cell, and then – then things got real bad.

Taking a steadying breath, I check my watch again and sigh. Barely three minutes since I last looked. Taking another sip, I cast my eyes around the room. The two woman sitting at the table across from me are glaring. What did I do? Subtly trying in my chair I look behind me. Noone's there. Shit. It is me they are glaring at. Time to go, I do not need any trouble.

Quickly, I head out of the small diner, going the longest way around so I don't have to be near the two women. Sirius's old bike, a glossy black beauty that's tinted a deep red, sits in a spot out front, as ready and waiting to finish this long trip as I feel. Hopping on, I rev the engine. It rumbles, growling in approval. Time to go see the American branch, I need to know how far this corruption wrought by the British Men of Letters has spread. I can only hope it is limited to Britain, France, and Denmark. If it spreads much further – no. Not a thought for now. I need to confirm the spread in America before I worry needlessly.

I glance up at the night sky. The city lights in the distance preventing it from being a perfect inky black. I hope I don't bollocks everything up. Helmet on, I flip the kickstand up and set the GPS on my phone for Lebanon, Kansas.

I'm shivering by the time I make it to the outskirts of Kansas. The wind is unforgiving today, whipping my hands red from the cold. Only a little farther, I can finally get the answers I need.

It's morning by the time I stop in front of a low to the ground concrete building, smaller than I thought the main American branch would be. I wish I still had enough magic in me to tell if this building was warded against wizard kind, they usually aren't but you never know with the Men of Letters. The emptiness that was a constant numbness at the back of my mind threatened to push forward and overwhelm me again. I shoved the feeling down. Hermione sacrificed her life and her entire existence in the past to send me back in time to prevent too spread of the British Men of Letters ideology. Compared to her sacrifice, giving up my magic alongside my shitty past was the least I could do.

God, Hermione's family. They would never have a daughter to love and raise. She would never be born in this world. She would never grow up to be a powerful witch. Never meet Ron, fall in love. Her entire existence, in any past – present – future, given up to fate to fuel a ritual that would allow someone to go back in time and make changes to the flow of time that hadn't already happened. None of the restrictions of a time turner, all the benefits of idealized time travel. If the person going back in time was willing to sacrifice their magic, the soul of a person dear to them, and the existence of themselves and the person sacrificed. A heavy price when the person going back in time has no guarantee of actually fixing anything. One person against the world has never been considered "good odds".

Bloody hell, it should have been Hermione instead of me.

I jerk out of my thoughts. I don't have time to be upset over this. Why do I have to keep thinking about her. She no longer exists and now she never would. The ritual made sure of that.

Getting off my bike, I run my hand over the AMT Hardballer, made of 100% stainless steel and engraved with the DA coat of arms – three wands aiming in unison at a coiled snake below, with the words "Be heard. Be Equipped. Be Just" – a gift from Ron on my twenty-fifth birthday, on my hip. On my other hip was a Kukri knife, an interesting mix of ninety percent iron and ten percent silver with a bend halfway through the ten-inch blade that it curves at a forty-five-degree angle. A favorite of mine because of its ability to easily slit throats while still functioning as a basic utility knife.

I keep these two weapons out in the open in case a hunter gets the drop on me. For some crazy reason, they believe me when I say I only have two weapons on me. They get close and never bother to check for knives inserted into the rubber heels of my shoes or the silver whip I disguise as a belt.

Today is a special day though, so I brought along a Steyr AUG, an Australian bullpup assault rifle, which I admittedly mostly bought because it had the word bullpup in the title. I used to call it The Pup before Hermione told me how cute I looked asking for it –

I rub my hand against my breastbone. I need to get my head in the game. I double check all my weapons are sharp, loaded and in place. Time to find out what is going on in America.

I use the key I stole when I left the service of the British Men of Letters. I open the, honestly fucking overly heavy, door and peer around the corner. Nothing. No men or women scrambling around with stacks of ancient papers or high tech laptops. No one is dragging down the latest creature to be experimented on in the dungeons. Simply put, the place looks abandoned.

I head down the spiral stairs. It's a relatively normal building considering when it was built. It has a few sturdy, wooden tables in the middle of the room and floor to ceiling bookcases crammed with texts. Running my fingers over the nearest book shelves leaves my fingers feeling ashen and coated with a thick layer of dust. The soft yellow lighting giving it a homey feel, casting long shadows everywhere.

Creeping further into the entry room, I notice a book lying open on the table. Flipping it closed, the title states boldly "A Complete Guide to the Complex Social Hierarchy of Angels." This could be bad. I didn't even know angels were present on earth again, let alone how to deal with them. And without Hermione, I wasn't sure I would ever get an answer. Just flipping through the thick book's small print was giving me a headache.

 _Shhhweeat_ , the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric hits my ear. Turning around sharply on the ball of my foot I bring up my gun to aim at the man in front of me.

"Drop the gun. Now!"

"Like hell. I've had a hell of a trip getting here and I've got nothing to lose. So we can either put them down at the same time or we can stand here –

A sharp pain in my head causes me to stumble forward. The man in front of me rushes forward. Tucking my gun near my chest, I drop and roll to the left. Only to quickly knock into the wooden legs of chairs. The knock to the back of my head really messed me up. Lifting myself off the ground proved harder than I thought before I realized the chairs I rolled into like a bowling ball into pins had fallen on top of me. This sucks.

"What the fuck. Is this guy stupid?", I hear the one who hit me from behind grunt out.

"Dean, he's tiny. You probably hit the kid too hard."

"Shut up, Sammy."

This is so embarrassing. The one that had the gun pointed at me lifts a chair off my back and pulls me up by the back of my jacket. Violet and green spots dance accross the edge of my vision. Whoa, is the room shaking? Something grabs my jaw and forces my head still. I open my eyes and see the mammoth of a man that had me at gunpoint.

"Why are you here."

This was not a well thought out plan, I think before my vision fades to black.


	2. Sitting in a Chair

**_Time Travel Isn't All Bad, Guys._**

 _This is a work of fiction based off of the Harry Potter books and Supernatural the TV show. I do not own the characters nor do I mean to insult or mock them. Sincerely, SilverSmithLols_

 _Grahhng_ , I groaned, my eyes fluttering open. I was sitting in the middle of a dark, concert room. Cold steel biting into my wrists and ankles and the taste of copper and soot in the air. Coughing as quietly as possible, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Looking around the room, I noticed everything is oddly disconnected. Like when looking at fish in an aquarium, the fish in the water is clear a day but everything above the water line seen through the glass is foggy, blurred. Crap. Those prejudice assholes must have beat me while I was out too, bollocking up my eye so I can see anything worth a damn.

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself. I was the one stupid enough to get myself into this mess the least I can do is keep cool and fix it.

Looking around the room as much as possible right now, I can see that the room is nearly empty except for a table in the far corner. I can make out some lumpy masses resting on the table top but that's about it. There is a door directly in front of me but the seal on the door is tight. Not even a crack along the underside of the door, seamless. Above me, there is a window covered with a metal grate, the only source of light in this darkness is coming from the moon I can just barely make out in the corner of the window. Glowing and utterly useless to me in my situation right now.

Okay, what next. Wiggling around in the chair, I can feel myself nailed down to something. God damn it. They even remembered to nail down the chair.

 _Pat. Tap. wah-wah. tap_ , I hear footsteps. Straining my ears I can just barely hear what sounds like the shorter man, Dean, talking. At least, I think it's him. He had a deeper voice than the other one, Sammy, did.

"Sam, I am not calling her. End of story.", said Dean.

"If you just-"

"Bah. Bah. Blah."

"Real mature, Dean. All I'm saying-"

"I hear you, but you're not hearing me. Done. I'm not talking about this anymore, Sam."

There's a tense pause and a strain my ears to hear someone say a soft "Alright", the rest I can't quite catch. Well, that or they could have said something about Allbright the painting company; this place could use a color besides black and grey. A backsplash here or there wouldn't hurt. They are batting about a zero for effort and upkeep at the moment. You know it's bad when even the air tastes of grime and despair.

 _Chuwooft. Tunk. Chuahhhhh._ , the door's metal gear shift and rock into formation as the door is slowly pushed open. Jeez, that door is probably heavy too, poor design flaw. At this point, they should give the place up as a loss. The housing market might still be pretty bad but really this place is really not worth the upkeep.

Dean comes in first with the man I saw earlier, Sammy, right behind him. From this distance, I can see that Dean and Sammy both have pale skin and thick builds. They both enter the room sideways at first, making them as small a target as possible, ready in case someone were to attack at any moment. They probably don't even know they do it considering they have me very well strapped down and know I'm not a threat locked down like this. They both walk on the balls of their feet, their bodies tilted forward slightly to allow for fast movement in any direction at a moment's notice. They are through and through fighters. I feel surprisingly less bad about being caught by them. A nice break from the guilt and anger of being caught in the first place but still.

Dean enters farther into the room than Sammy, who stands next to the table by the door. Both of them are wearing plaid, jeans, and some type of faded brown hikers boot. Tough I can't tell the color of Sammy's shirt Dean is wearing red. Possibly apple red. Dean has a square jaw, long lashes, and a spattering of freckles-

Jerking my head back sharply, my eyes refocus.

"Now, that your present princess maybe you can focus.", states a Dean who is inches away from my face.

"Do you try to make out with everyone who ignores you.", I snap back.

An awkward silence settles in the room. Dean quickly sucks his head back in like a turtle drawing his head back into its shell when in danger. He stands up, taking his hands from his knees and takes a step back. Half turning to Sammy, asking nonverbally with a scrunched up face, "Did I just hear that right?". Sammy, appearing equally confused just shrugs. At least I can rest easy in the knowledge that what comes out of my mouth throws everyone off as much as it does me.

Dean seems to pull it together somewhat. His chin nearly touching his chest with how much angry eye he is trying to give me right now.

"Look, Boy Scout now is not the time to be pissing off the people that hold your life in their hands. So. Here's how this is going to go. You're going to answer our questions and if you answer nice and easy, you'll die nice and easy."

My throat goes dry, and the muscles in my back and legs tense and relax vainly. I keep my hands splayed and unmoving on the arms of the chair and try to remain unblinking. Well, hell. This could definitely go better for me.


	3. Intero-Your Face is makes me Uncomfortab

_**Time Travel Isn't All Bad, Guys.**_

 _This is a work of fiction based off of the Harry Potter books and Supernatural the TV show. I do not own the characters nor do I mean to insult or mock them. Sincerely, SilverSmithLols_

"I want to talk to whoever is in charge of the American branch of the Men of Letters.", I break the silence. Might as well aim high and hope to get some information. Dean chuckles wryly.

"That's not how this works. You answer our questions. How did you find the bunker?"

Should that not already be obvious? Is he trying to start with easy questions and lull me into a sense of ease? Looking away from Dean, I see Sammy in the corner fiddling with the objects on that table by the door. A chill goes down my spine. I think I know what they have in mind if I don't answer. I can handle a lot but long term torture is not something I think I will make it through in one piece. Last time I was tortured was by the British Men of Letters.

"Formerly I was part of the British Men of Letters. They have files and the locations of other the other branch's bases."

"Formerly?", Sammy chimes in at the same time as Dean asks why I came. Telling them I came because I needed to make sure they didn't join the British Men of Letters didn't sound like a good idea. Especially since it will lead to awkward questions like what are you going to do if joined. Telling someone you planned on killing them was never a solid plan but the universal rule is that if you are captured you sure as hell don't say that.

"Ummm, so I don't really want to answer anymore."

And we are back to stunned silence and nonverbal "what the fuck" faces.

"You don't get to just not answer. You broke into our bunker-"

"Is that like a royal "our" or is it 'our' as in your two are the ones in charge?", I burst out suddenly feeling hopeful. If these two are the ones in charge I can actually start getting some answers about the American Men of Letters. Dean sighs deeply and grabs the bridge of his nose. I imagine this s frustrating for him but really when is interrogating someone not frustrating. He must not be out in the field a lot.

"Did I not just say-"

"-No, I heard you. It's just what I'm asking is more important."

"Listen here, you little shit.", Dean grits out while lunging forward, grabbing onto the cuffs keeping my wrists anchored to the chair

"Dean.", Sammy calls warningly, taking a few steps farther into the room.

"No offense?", I try, it sounds flippant even to my ears. Dean throws up his hands and turns to Sammy in very obvious frustration. Sam just sighs and they start talking to each other, ignoring me. Rude.

"How is there no offense? Anytime someone says no offense, it's always offensive. Everyone knows that!"

"Well, what do you want to do? We can't torture answers out of him, Dean."

"Yah, I know. But we can't just leave him here."

They start whispering. Every once in a while I can catch a couple of words: mom, Cas, beer. Not enough to really understand what they are saying but it's better than nothing. They must come to some sort of decision because Dean sighs and goes to lean against the wall where Sam was earlier. Great, they are changing tactics. I do not want to deal with grunts all day. I have got to get out of here. Sam walks behind me and grabs… something. I can't recognize the sound and the room echoes a lot, making guessing impossible anyways. I try to keep my body from tensing but my arms have a mind of their own. Being restrained is one thing but having a threat where I can't see them makes my skin itch. I refuse to turn my eyes away from Dean. I know a power play when I see one. Still locked in a staring contest with Dean, I see Sam comes back into my line of sight with a chair. He sits down, body angled towards me but out of his brother's way.

"My name is Sam and this is my brother Dean."

"Harry.", I say without looking away from Dean.

"Winchester. I'm Sam Winchester.", he says that like it's something important. I hope he's not expecting me to say my last name. My name is too recognizable. Within minutes of me telling them my name the Men of Letters could know everything about my life. A weighted silence follows. Dean twitches a little but catches himself.

"You look like a Harry," he says after a beat of silence. "How old are you, Harry."

Now that is a weird question to ask. I look away from Dean and take in Sam. Annoyingly, Sam is still towers over me even sitting. He looks earnest for some reason, like he is genuinely concerned. About what, who knows but that's the vibe I'm picking up. He's awkward in the chair. Holding his body stiffly like he really just wants to be standing again. His hair keeps falling in his face, but he just brushes it behind his ear. Looking like he could wait years for an answer.

"Why are you making that face."

"What face?" He looks baffled. Dean stifles a chuckle. Sam stiffens probably hearing Dean laughing. Shifting in my chair uncomfortably, I watch Sam shut his eyes briefly before regaining his composure. My face must be showing something because he loses some of the anger he had a second ago and turned on back on the concern.

"I'm asking how old you are because you do not look eighteen. Your parents must be worried about you. If you give us a number we can contact them and let them know where you are."

I can feel my face flush in anger, my entire body stiffening. How dare he say something like that. Everyone knows – Oh. My stomach churns heavily, I look away from Sam's face and stare at a wall. He couldn't have known. I haven't existed in this timeline at all until a few hours ago. Just like Hermione doesn't. Fuck. Can I even say my parents are dead? For all I know, they have another kid and are living.

"I don't have parents.", I hear myself say.

"…Sorry."

The concrete wall is made up of about five different shades of grey. I wonder what they would be called: rhino hide, dusk, mourning dove, etc. paint always has strange names. Trying to get people to remember them with their unusual names.

"How old are you, Harry."

"Twenty-seven."

"If you don't want to answer, you don't have too. But lying isn't going to help." I snort and look at him again. He seems frustrated.

"I didn't lie. I'm pretty bad at lying, you would know if I did."

"There is no way you are twenty-seven, kid. Maybe seventeen. Maybe.", Dean chimes in unhelpfully. God, almighty. What's the point of lying about my age.

"I have stubble." I say

"Yah, so did I when I was fifteen."

"Whatever, then I'm seventeen." I'm so done with this.

"You have to give me something to work with. You understand? I – we have people to protect. So you start talking or answer our questions.", Sam stutters out, half pleading half commanding.

Well, if you would just listen and bring me whoever is in charge, is what I want to say. Then I remember how empty to place was before the two showed up, how unused the place is, all the dust. There isn't anyone besides these two. The realization is horrible. I had been counting on the American branch of the Men of Letters to help stop the British but how could they. Three men against an endless sea of men and woman with connections and money aren't going to work.

"There's no one else. Oh, god that's horrible."  
"It's just us.", Sam confirms.

"How did it happen? Was it the British Men of Letters."

" No, it was a Knight of Hell."

"I have no idea what that is. Some kind of demon?"

"Not important. What's important is why you left the British men of letters.", Dean calls out, clearly bored of standing quiet in the corner. He walks forward and stands just slightly to the right and behind. Sam tilts his head to glance questioningly at Dean. "So. Why did you leave the British Men of Letters."

"They were killing people! Sure they killed a whole lot of monsters but they killed psychics and good witches and everything that was even a little bit not human. They murdered innocents. People that couldn't control the way they were born. It was disgusting. My friends and I ripped apart as much of the organization as we could and then we ran. Didn't do much damage and we still got caught–"God talking about this is hard. My throat is tightening up, my mouth dry. I can barely choke the words out. I look at Dean, "You have to believe me."

"I need to talk to you Dean," Sam says abruptly. Dean breaks our staring contest this time. And they both walk out. The door closes, with a finality that I've never heard before. Stupid heavy door, even its mocking me.

This could be the end. If they don't believe me all this has been for nothing. Hermione's life, wasted. My magic, gone for nothing. My body is cold and the darkness of the room is nearly all gone. The small window above has early morning sun streaming through, the moon fading fast. I pretty last sight.


	4. Need A Bathroom Soon

**_Time Travel Isn't All Bad, Guys._**

 _This is a work of fiction based off of the Harry Potter books and Supernatural the TV show. I do not own the characters nor do I mean to insult or mock them. Not everything in the following story is cannon such as ages, character personalities, and plot lines. Sincerely, SilverSmithLols_

The orange haze of the setting sun is clearly visible through the little window above me, the day nearly gone now. Somehow, sitting here all day has caused my mind and my body to melt into an uneasy, tense exhaustion. There is nothing to do. I had tried to nap earlier but nightmares kept me from sleeping for long. My body jerking awake in a panic each time my sleeping mind conjured different, horrible consequences if I fail on this mission, which with each passing hour seems more and more likely.

It was just a waiting game. A waiting game that had been driving me crazy all day. With nothing to do, I couldn't help but keep thinking about the Winchesters. When they left earlier this morning I was convinced that they weren't a part of the British Men of Letters but as time went on my mind began to turn on me. If they weren't part of the British Men of Letters and this American branch really had been ruined to the point that there were only two legacies left then why were they keeping me here. It didn't make sense. The two of them should have been able to come to a consensus on what to do with me hours ago. Which left me to believe they were calling in outside help, possibly from the British Men of Letters.

Whenever there was a rogue hunter the British Men of Letters always demanded reports and documentation of their "wrongdoing" before sending out a specially assigned agent to execute said Hunter. It was highly likely that the Winchester boys were waiting for the other agent to arrive. I had seen it before, hunters who would condemn those who broke ranks but didn't have the stomach to go through with killing something authentically human. Despite knowing the end was near, that the next great adventure was not far out of my reach, I remained restless and tensed. I wasn't going down without a fight. I had given up so much to get to this point. The stinging in my eyes grew. Given up so much for this chance to stop everything from going to hell. Tilting my head back to try and blink the dust out of my eyes, I forced my mind to reassess the situation again.

I stopped having feeling in my hands and feet hours ago, of the thick steel, binding my body the chair cutting off my circulation. I had no weapons on me, no contacts in the world and no money. They had probably already found my bike, so I couldn't count on transportation if I got out of this situation. My plan, goad them into wanting to beat me. Hopefully, they would release me to more easily do that. Not a full proof plan by a long shot but it was all I had. A will and a mouth that got me in trouble more times than I could count.

Either way, the Winchesters being a part of the British Men of Letters doesn't affect my immediate plan of getting the hell out of this building. Being stuck with nothing to do but think gives a person plenty of time to realize he rushed into the situation without enough information or for thought. I needed out and to find a place to rest and piece together a plan.

I resigned myself to waiting. I could only hope they would come in soon. Even though I was used to going without food and human interaction, eventually I would need water and to use the restroom.


	5. Underpants

**_Time Travel Isn't All Bad, Guys._**

 _This is a work of fiction based off of the Harry Potter books and Supernatural the TV show. I do not own the characters nor do I mean to insult or mock them. Not everything in this story is cannon. Sincerely, SilverSmithLols_

It's not until after the sun has fully set that Dean and Sam come back. As soon as they do, I wish they hadn't. With them standing in the room, all I can focus on is how vulnerable I am. My body is tired, I'm stressed out of my mind, and as much as I try not to think about it I'm grieving. My friends either don't know me or don't exist. The little family I had made with Teddy and the Weasley clan was gone with no hope of revival. And these - these idiots wanted to withhold water and bathroom privileges until I told them everything I knew. What made them so special that they have the authority to demand things from me. To expect that they would use what I know properly. To trust they would let me go once it is all said and done. Idiots.

It's not until after the sun has fully set that Dean and Sam come back. As soon as they do, I wish they hadn't. With them standing in the room, all I can focus on is how vulnerable I am. My body is tired, I'm stressed out of my mind, and as much as I try not to think about it I'm grieving. My friends either don't know me or don't exist. The little family I had made with Teddy and the Weasley clan was gone with no hope of revival. And these - these idiots wanted to withhold water and bathroom privileges until I told them everything I knew. What made them so special that they have the authority to demand things from me. To expect that they would use what I know properly. To trust they would let me go once it is all said and done. Idiots.

"I said, no. I don't know how to be any more clear."

"Look, kid, you know the only way you're getting to the 'loo' is if you tell us what we want to know.", Dean mocked. His devil may care attitude was prancing about on my last god damned nerve.

"No."

Dean shrugged off the wall and came to stand in front of me. Sam sighed heavily from his chair. My arms twitched in the cuffs, wanting nothing more than to be able to cross my arms over my chest in the universal signal of I'm-so-done-with-this-shit, unable to do that I look away from both of them attempting to ignore them.

"We don't have time for this Sammy. We don't even need him. Let's just get rid of him." My head snaps around at that in time to see Sam's eyes evaluating my reactions before I deliberately turn to stare Dean down.

"You need to ask permission to hold your dick when you piss too or is it only the important stuff?", I sneer. I can feel the cruel smirk plastered to my face, even as fear curls and twists in my gut. Dean takes a quick step forward. I tense up, bracing myself for the hit.

"Stop it, guys. We aren't killing anyone here.", Sam's voice stopping Dean in his tracks.

"Speak for yourself," Dean mutters. Sam ignores Dean, looking at me this time.

"Harry, can't you see what this is like for us? You broke into our home. Hold a gun to us and then refuse to explain anything. What would you do in that situation? Just let them go?"

Sam pleading me to understand causes me to quit goading Dean and actually look at Sam. He's leaning forward in his chair, his body langue appearing open and honest. I want to believe him. If only so I don't have to do this all alone. But the truth of the matter is that he and his brother cannot be trusted. Not because they locked me up or won't give me water. They can't be trusted because even if they aren't with the British Men of Letters, they could share the same ideals. These two obviously know what they are doing. They bound me up properly, are asking all the right questions, are practiced fighters and they checked me for supernatural heritage and possession before questioning me the first time. They are experienced hunters of the supernatural. No one gets to be an experienced hunter by being considerate and caring towards the supernatural. There's a chance they are so jaded by what they have seen that an end to all supernatural creatures at any cost is exactly what they want. I can't give the British Men of Letter's a foothold in America – if they aren't here already – and I can't risk my life and mission before telling them prematurely. No matter how truthful or honest they seem to be.

"You have to understand that I came here to protect people. Telling you anything could put them in danger."

"In danger from the British Men of Letters?" Sam asks innocently.

Eyes wide, I lean back. Bloody hell. They're already here, spreading their poison. Leaning back and taking in a steadying breath. Putting a politely bored face on, I glance at Dean who is very interested and sharing a knowing look with Sam. Looking back at

"You know the British Men of Letters?" I ask

"You mentioned them earlier," Sam responds. I hum and wait. He may know I know about them but I'm sure as hell not giving him any more information about them.

"They also tortured me."

"And you think that bonds us, Sam Winchester? If you were really tortured by them then you know exactly how far they will go to get what they want. How they can push the human body to the brink of breaking before piecing it back together and starting again. How they will use anything you care about against you. How they can _get in your head_."

It's the first time I've said it out loud. How worried I am that this is all in my head. That the British Men of Letters somehow managed to trace the ritual and capture me before I could even start my mission. That everything has been so far had been fake. That I could become a mindless dummy directed by the British Men of Letters. That I would inevitably join the organization that took Ron and turned him with the very same technique. Snap out of it, I command myself. Pushing my fear down, I try and ground myself.

Sam's face turns through several emotions to quickly for me to catch. I can see his jaw is working as he grinds his teeth against each other. This was his big play, I can see. He was counting on me hating them enough to tell him everything. He either an idiot at best or they really are in my head with their illusions and dirty tricks. His hands are clenching and unclenching quickly before he freezes.

"You're not brainwashed yet though, are you –

"Obviously." I cut him off with a contemptuous drawl, my best Severus Snape impersonation. It nearly makes me smile; causing me to remember all the times Ron drunkenly would ask me to show Neville or whomever he was talking to at that moment. Ron loved it, said it was like he was being channeled from beyond the grave. Sam interrupts my thoughts with an irritated huff.

"No, I mean. You're resisting so if I was an illusion I'm not working, right?"

That's… true. I don't see where he is going with this though, he basically just admitted to being an illusion attempting to get information from me. Unless the people casting the illusion could tell that I am familiar with this spell and therefore directed the illusion to do admit to being an illusion in the hopes it would get me to trust that it wasn't actually an illusion – wait that doesn't make sense. God damn it now I'm just confused and have a headache. With narrow eyes, I nod.

"So whatever spell they usually use isn't working on you. Or isn't working yet. You don't suddenly love the British Men of Letters do you?" I can feel my upper lip curl up, baring my teeth in disgust at the thought.

"Never." I grit out between clenched teeth. "What's your point."

"Well, then all you have to do is resist until the spell wears off. If we really are illusionary then once the spell wears off you will know what is actually real and fake. They can't do the spell more than once on a person for the same information because if the mind guards itself effectively one time it can guard itself against the spell no matter how many other times the spell is cast."

Wait, What? I mean I guess that would work but… Can I last a week? Do I have a choice? I was no good at mental magic when I had magic. I know I can outlast the spell but there is no way I'm going to be able to break the spell before the full week is up.

"How long does it take for the spell to wear off?" Dean breaks the contemplative silence.

"I – I don't know." Sam admits "We can look in the library. I'm sure it's in one of these old tombs somewhere. They wrote everything down."

"It lasts a week. If the person doesn't break the spell first." I mutter. If I can make it a week without telling giving up any information and they are still here then that means I could have potential allies. If the British Men of Letters are already showing their true face then they can't be far from the extermination process. God, I hope they are real. A light at the end of the tunnel would be a godsend right about now. Because if they aren't real, then once the week is up I'm in for a world of hurt.

"Sam, we can't keep him for a week. We have things to do."

"We are taking him with us."

"No, we are not. You think we can trust him at our backs? He'll take off. And you know he's going to try and steal baby if he does. He cannot have baby, Sam. This is not happening."

"What else are we supposed to do with him, Dean? We can't just leave him here. He'll starve."

"You could let me go.", I suggest.

"Shut up." They both shout at me without looking away from each other.

Rude. I should have some power to make decisions if they really aren't illusions. I keep quiet though because staying with them only benefits me. I've got no money and no place to go, if they aren't the British Men of Letters then learning about how they live and what their code is can only help.

"Fine." Dean capitulates. Sam's triumphant grin lasts less than a second when Dean tells him that Sam has to take me to the bathroom. I'm really feeling the love right now.

Once the restraints on my hands are unlocked, I start trying to rub feeling back into them.

"Do they have to be so tight? I can't even feel anything."

Sam's face says 'yes, duh' very clearly as he unlocks the restraints on my ankles. Which I ignore because acknowledging my stupid question, will only mean he wins. He has won enough these past two days. Ignoring him turns out to be a bad idea since while I was ignoring him I didn't notice his hands reaching to undo my belt and trousers.

"Hey, hey let' slow down for a minute! You're a very attractive man but I'm really not looking for a relationship right now, Sam." My useless hands failing to push his away causing panic to well up in the back of my throat. I can hear Dean chortling from the hallway. "It's not you, it's –

"Shut. Up." My mouth snaps shut with an audible clack. "I am not going to assault you nor am I removing your pants for my pleasure. We superglued your pants to the seat. I have to take them off you to get you out of here."

There are a couple beats of stunned silence before Sam reaches from my belt again. I let him.

"Why would you do this?" I manage to choke out as he helps me crawl out of my pants. He looks put upon as if this was my fault. I don't want to this either.

"If you managed to escape the bunker it would be easy to find you. We would just have to say we were looking for the crazy guy with no pants."

I hate that that makes sense.

"So you're a boxer type of guy. I have to say I'm surprised you chose bright red silk –

I can feel my face heat and know by now I'm bright red. It only gets worse when I feel Sam laughing causing the world to spin a little. Shit, I need water and food soon.

"Quit checking me out!" I call out over my shoulder to Dean. Sam is snickering audibly as Dean chokes and walks away with a muttered whatever.


End file.
